


let me look in your eyes.

by sehnsvcht (orphan_account)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, You decide!, and like......a LOT of emotion coming from harry, fluff fluff fluff!!!!!, harry loves to take pictures, in other words: this is a journey in the mind of an enamored harry styles, it can be an AU, it can be canon, just one thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-05
Packaged: 2018-03-29 03:12:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3880087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/sehnsvcht
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's very late at night, and Harry is in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me look in your eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this two days ago, around midnight, and didn't touch it until now. I finished it tonight instead of studying (I definitely wouldn't recommend doing that, ever). I barely had the time to reread anything, so please forgive the mistakes (and please point them out so I can correct them!)  
> This was inspired by the poem ["San Antonio" by Naomi Shihab Nye](http://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/san-antonio), which actually opens this very quick one shot thing.  
> The title comes from the song ["Hold Back The River" by the amazing James Bay](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mqiH0ZSkM9I).  
> This isn't exactly a fic per se, and this is definitely not smut. This is just a rather short, emotional journey. Something sweet, I'd like to think.  
> I'd recommend listening to ["Hundred" by The Fray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MjP2TGL-srY) while reading this. It doesn't really have to do with the story (well, it kind of does, depending on your perspective on said story, which I think is really something up to the reader, you know?), but the song sets the mood perfectly for this. So, there.  
> I hope you enjoy it, and please leave kudos/comments as this is my first published short story ever!!!! :-)

_"Tonight I lingered over your name,_

_the delicate assembly of vowels_

_a voice inside my head._

_You were sleeping when I arrived._

_I stood by your bed_

_and watched the sheets rise gently._

_I knew what slant of light_

_would make you turn over._

_It was then I felt_

_the highways slide out of my hands._

_I remembered the old men_

_in the west side cafe,_

_dealing dominoes like magical charms._

_It was then I knew,_

_like a woman looking backward,_

_I could not leave you,_

_or find anyone I loved more."_

 

— Naomi Shihab Nye

 

*******

 

The evening glow has settled for a few hours now. The spring air is thick with fresh smells, and rancid ones, too—the wind, the water, the gas and the flowers, the grass and the alcohol. Some of them are bitter, some sweet; some seem old and other ones new. None of them are clearly discernible, though—it's as if the dark of the night takes away their nuances and blends them all together, giving the night its distinct, characteristic smell. It's warm, and refreshing at the same time. It's familiar while being foreign and ready to discover. It's rather comforting, actually.

The air is thick and hot despite the fact that spring has only just started blooming. The streets are still littered with passing cars and lively strangers passing by; they're loud, most of them, either laughing gleefully, or speaking softly, whispering sweet nothings, or some of them (albeit very few), crying quietly in the dead of the night. Still, it's a lovely night, tonight. The lights are bright and they shine beautifully in the dark, the people walking by painting gloomy shadows onto the pavement. Faint echoes of jazz music can be heard from the pub further down the street. The night is busy and dazzling and it aches as much as it is invigorating. Harry smiles softly.

He lifts up his camera, takes one shot of the scene unfolding before him, and leaves it at that. He doesn't bother checking if it came out nicely—he knows it did.

He has somewhere to get to, now.

He makes his way down the sidewalks, his breathing even, his smile never fading. He passes a few strangers, smiles at them, sometimes takes a picture of the sparse crowd scattered around him. His thoughts are mere whispers in his head, all soft, serene, peaceful. Miles Davis is still humming his melancholic melodies somewhere in between them.

In the back of his mind, a pair of blue sparks is staring fondly at him.

Harry is heading home.

Their place always seems more beautiful at night. The red brick takes a darker shade; it goes from a bright crimson colour to a rich, warmer brown. The banister is shining under the street lights facing the building. Leaves are swirling amongst blooming buds, some of them getting caught on windowsills and doormats. Harry loves it. The leaves are bright and colourful and they make him smile and they remind him of older, simpler days. They leave him feeling nostalgic and happy and satisfied.

He takes another picture. He takes his time, though—doesn't rush to enter the flat just yet. He takes in the wind and the low sound it makes, the way it leaves a soft shiver on his skin, the way it almost reminds him of human touch. He tries to capture this into a shot, and lingers there for another minute.

He closes his eyes, still smiling. A content sigh escapes from his lips.

Time stands still for a few seconds, and Harry takes in a sharp breath. All he can hear is the wind; all he can see are Louis' eyes, inscribed in the depths of his mind.

 _Louis_. Harry exhales slowly.

When he opens his eyes, he sighs again, before climbing the stairs to the front porch where the moonlight leaves funny patterns on the brick wall. He climbs another flight of stairs to their flat. _Their_ home.

The key enters the lock and the door opens. Harry goes to turn on the lights, but decides against it—it would destroy everything; the entire scene would fall apart, as if the wind would stop blowing, the passersby would stop laughing, the leaves would stop whispering and the night would lose its charm. He doesn't want that to happen, and so he won't risk it.

It takes him a while to take his bearings without the light on, though. However, his eyes get used to the dark quickly, and soon enough he's able to discern dark shapes and shadows in the dark of the apartment. When he looks up after locking the door behind him, he catches his reflection on the mirror facing him. His wide green eyes are staring back at him, exhausted, content. His features are calm and reposed, despite his tired eyes. He can still smell the distinct, sharp night air on his shirt. His hair is getting terribly long, now, but he refuses to cut it—he loves it like this, and so does Louis. After all, he does tell him every single day.

The mirror displays a happy, satisfied version of himself. Harry notices he looks rather soft in his pale clothes and sleepy eyes. He likes it, and would take a picture, if that didn't make him feel so atrociously vain.

It would be a great shot, though. The reflection staring back at him is filled with an emotion—although Harry can't quite put his finger on what it is—and that's what his pictures are all about. Emotions, feelings, or just little moments that can't be described or retold or explained; they can only be shown, captured, and that's what Harry does. He captures moments in time, and renders them timeless. His current reflection is giving off that vibe Harry looks for, that vibrant, strong aura that makes him itch for his camera. But, now is not the time. Shooting a quick smirk at himself, Harry backs away from the mirror.

Smoothing a hand over his face, he heads to the kitchen first, dropping his keys on the counter, before grabbing a glass and opening the fridge. He reaches for the milk, and decides after a moment to grab a piece of cake with it.

He heads to the living room, and stops. The door leading to the balcony is open, the wind making its way inside the flat and swaying the white curtains in its wake. The moon casts a bright fringe on the parquet. Behind the curtain, Harry can see an empty mug sitting on the balcony floor, with next to it a small plate and a fork. A smile starts tugging on the corner of his lips as he makes his way to the door.

He bends down, puts down his own mug and plate, both remaining untouched, before he straightens up slowly, looking to his left. He finds him there, exactly like he knew he'd be. His grin grows wider, softer.

Louis is sound asleep on the chair by the window, his head resting on his right shoulder, his legs folded onto his chest. He's wearing gray joggers and a green sweater that are far too warm for the weather, but he looks adorable, and soft, and _beautiful_. His eyelashes cast thin shadows on his cheekbones, his eyelids fluttering slightly in his sleep. His breathing is soothing, Harry finds. He can sometimes hear a faint whimper in Louis' voice, too. Always content, always soft. So, so very soft.

His hair is mussed and sticks in a thousand different directions, begging to be touched. Slowly, Harry brings his own hand up, and cards his fingers tenderly through Louis' careless fringe. He can't help his ever growing smile, and bites his lip.

Louis is beautiful, is the thing.

He is beautiful in the darkest hours of the night, when he wakes up after a bad dream, eyes lost and frantic as they search for Harry's mere presence, his only touch. He is beautiful later on, when he wakes up a second time, when Harry has made sure a warm breakfast is waiting for him in the kitchen. He is beautiful when he laughs, when he speaks, when he sings; definitely when he sings. He is beautiful when everyone pays attention to every word escaping his mouth, when he knows he has got everyone wrapped around his finger, a smirk dancing on his lips. He is beautiful when no one's watching, when his gaze is fond and a little lost but always sparkling with something very _Louis_. He is beautiful when the sun rises and when it sets, when the moon rises and when it rests. He is beautiful and poetic and romantic all in his own ways. 

Louis is beautiful, from the blue of his eyes, to the curve of his smile, to the sound of his voice and the warmth of his skin, and the countless ways he lets Harry show him just how stunning he is.

Louis is beautiful, and Harry is so, _so_ in love with him.

And it hits him like a wave. The love, the realization of something so very obvious, something that was there for so long now; it still hits Harry like a brick and a soothing blanket at the same time.

It's a crash of emotions, after that; as he still strokes Louis' hair through his fingers, just as softly, he can feel his heart bursting with love, lust, affection, endearment—anything and everything he's ever felt for the boy right by his side at this very moment.

And they've shared so much, and have done so for so long. And Harry has known he loved the man under his touch for a long time now. They've said it, back and forth, a thousand times. And the first time felt immense, and Harry still remembers, but somehow, he didn't expect it to be just as great, just as important and reviving every single time the words would leave his lips. Yet, it was, every single time, whenever he'd say those three simple words, or would catch Louis whisper them softly in his ear.

But now, now he was feeling something so completely different yet similar, so completely whole and brand new and it was terrifying how certain of it he was.

He, Harry Styles, _loves_ Louis Tomlinson.

And he will most likely love him for the rest of his entire life, too.

It kind of feels too big, yet not big enough, to come to terms with it. It should scare him, and it does, a little, but he loves it. He loves the feeling of certainty crawling in his guts, filling up his veins, warming up his heart. It's strong and laced with love and he can't get enough, won't ever get enough. As long as Louis is by his side, he knows he'll be fine.

And that's the thing, really. Louis by his side, always, for as long as Harry will breathe in this world and blink the seconds away to his end. He knows it's something that is and always will be, and the thought of it just fills him up entirely with a fire so strong it is burning his insides. It aches and it's amazing.

"I love you," he whispers quietly, his hand stopping his motion to cradle Louis' jaw as softly as he can.

At that moment, almost in a ridiculously cliché manner, Louis' eyelids flutter open slowly, earning a soft gasp from Harry.

Blue gray clouds seem tangled in Louis' gaze as his eyes meet Harry's. Instantly, he can see the emotions play out in them; fatigue, surprise, and then fondness, affection, love. Always, always so much love. Louis' eyes are like a blue storm raging with sentiment, and Harry has seemingly lost his mind in the midst of it.

It's breathtaking and shouldn't hit him as hard as it does, but tonight is a night filled with first times and over agains. He would take a picture, if he didn't have any doubt the camera would be able to capture the scene properly.

"Hey," Louis murmurs softly, leaning into Harry's touch still lingering on his cheek.

"Hi," Harry says back. "Didn't mean to wake you."

Louis shrugs softly, a shiver making its way down his spine. Harry bites his lip again. He's just so adorable. "'S all good. I had to go back to bed at some point anyway." He stifles a yawn, and stretches languidly on his chair. "You coming?"

Harry nods. Neither of them moves. "Sounds good to me."

Louis smiles fully at that, lips pressed against one another, eyes loving and gleaming. "Alright. Come on, then, I'm knackered."

Harry giggles at that, and it makes him feel young again. He loves it.

He helps Louis back on his feet, and that's when he catches sight of his milk and cake. He lets go of Louis' hand, and bends down to pick the cups and plates on the floor. He'll store them in the fridge. He's too tired and enamored to do anything else at the moment.

After his quick detour at the kitchen, Harry finds Louis already in bed. He's taken off his green sweater, now lying on the back of the desk chair, rumpled and most probably warm and smelling of Louis and the night that surrounded him a while ago. His gaze shifts, and suddenly blue eyes are staring at him with expectancy and warmth, and Harry smiles. He hasn't stopped smiling for what seems like forever now.

He takes off his shirt, his trousers, and climbs in bed, reaching for Louis' hand immediately. Their legs tangle almost on their own, and they're now facing each other in the dark. Despite that, though, Harry can see everything.

Louis' eyes are still bright, still shining, still very blue and yet incandescent in the shadows surrounding them both. His sharp features seem softened by the dark, yet they create shadows on his face that are endearing and beautiful.

Louis is so, _so_ beautiful.

And his touch is nice and warm and soft, tonight. Harry can feel the fatigue running through his veins, under his skin, and it makes him smile. Right now, Louis is gentle and pliant, the perfect picture of affection, and it's a side of Louis Harry has learned to love and cherish with time. He loves this side of him, one he doesn't show often, one he only lets Harry, and a very few others, take a look at, from time to time. It's vulnerable and loving, open and kind. It's rich with emotion and stories and Harry loves it.

He can feel his heart grow bigger and beat faster as time elapses between them both, in the silence of the night. Despite the calm reigning in the room, Harry feels his insides burst with love, something full of passion yet incredibly warm. It's eating him up and he's enjoying every second of it.

"What are you thinking about?" Louis asks him, quietly, cutting in between Harry's thoughts.

"You," Harry replies. His eyes are fixed on Louis' who is staring back just as intently.

"What about me?"

"You're beautiful."

Louis beams, albeit tiredly. His eyelids seem heavy and his smile is lazy and content. "So are you, love."

Harry shakes his head softly, and brings their intertwined hands to his lips. He leaves a soft kiss on each of Louis' knuckles before saying it, looking straight into his eyes. "I love you, Louis."

It doesn't sound different from any other time before—the words are the same, after all. But Harry hopes, at least, that they manage to carry everything he could never say out loud. All the emotions and quirks that makes his love what it is, all the smiles and moans and kisses he has ever given and will keep on giving, all the moments and all the thoughts all the photographs—just everything Harry cannot put into sentences.

When Louis pulls on his hand and kisses him back with intent, his lips soft against his own, moving tenderly and with so much care Harry is scared of ever breaking its tangibility, when he hears Louis say those words back with as much meaning as he himself did, Harry knows. Through the sound of the rustling sheets under their moving bodies, through Louis' quiet whimpers and whispered sweet nothings that mean _everything_ , through his perpetual touch all over his skin and all the kisses and marks left behind, Harry knows.

He knows that, through those three simple, simple words, and through the honesty they carry, Louis understands.

 


End file.
